Then overlooking him from head to foot--

"Well, you have been making a day of it."

"Oh, these are my old clothes--that is glue; don't look at me--I had an
accident with the glue-pot; and that's paint. Yes; I must get some new
shirts, these won't hold a button any longer."

The conversation paused a few seconds, then running her finger down the
keys, she said--

"But it goes admirably."

"Yes; I've finished it now; it is an exquisite instrument. I could not
leave it till it was finished."

"Then what are you complaining of, darling? Has Father Gordon been here?
Has he discovered any new Belgian composer, and does he want all his
music to be given at St. Joseph's?"

"No; Father Gordon hasn't been here, and as for the Belgian composers,
there are none left; he has discovered them all."

"Then you've been thinking about me, about my voice.
That's it," she said, catching sight of her own photograph. "You've
been frowning over that photograph, thinking"--her eyes went up to her
mother's portrait--"all sorts of nonsense, making yourself miserable,
reproaching yourself that you do not teach me to vocalise, a thing which
you know nothing about, or lamenting that you are not rich enough to
send me abroad, where I could be taught it." Then, with a pensive note